


Vallaslin

by therickykitty



Series: The Wolf of Skyhold [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Desya is furious, M/M, and Samson can only be there for him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 16:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3699068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therickykitty/pseuds/therickykitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the incident in the Arbor Wilds, Desya Lavellan can barely handle what he learned. And Samson can only hope he can be enough to see him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vallaslin

“Vhenan, are these…do you think my tattoos are ugly?”

Samson whirled so fast he’d wager he’d have snapped his neck if it was any harder. “ _What the bloody hell are you talking about?_ ” He could barely contain the surprise - and disgust - that came snarling out.

His heart seized up and his throat clenched so tight he thought he would choke. There was the elf, sitting right next to him, and he wore such an open and wounded expression that Samson felt his heart would break. He looked so lost and worn down, and the puffiness around his eyes told the old wolf that it wasn’t from just a lack of sleep.

Samson stood over him, and asked in a low voice, “What happened in the Wilds?”

And so Desya told him. About Abelas, the ancient elves, what they learned about the Dalish and the elves in Arlathan…and what the face tattoos truly meant. He’d never seen the young man look as haunted as he did then, and the way his hands kept smoothing over his face, almost as if he was trying in some way to claw them off. 

“Dove, it’s not like you can just wish them away. You know I think they’re lovely,” Samson said gently, smoothing his hand across the elf’s cheek. He startled when Desya thrashed and stood up and paced away from him. He’d never seen him look as furious as he did now. 

“Ma’fen, they were warmongers! Murderers! Slavers! _My clan, all of the elves hiding in the forest, we wear carvings of slaves_!“ Desya screamed, then, in a mad rush, threw a vase from their stand at the wall across from them. His lithe form was trembling with fury, and with a choked scream he collapsed to his knees and slapped his palms against the stone floor. 

Samson scrunched his brow in concern as Desya’s quaking form became wracked with choked sobs. He bent next to him and rubbed his back soothingly, tucking some stray strands behind pointed ears, and let him pour it out. He knew it would be difficult for the young man, and all he could do was simply be there and hold him through it all. 

“Solas _knew_ …he told me…he knew all along,” Desya hiccuped. “He must’ve thought….it was so funny…the ignorant little Dalish mage…just another thing we got _wrong_.”

“Well so-fucking-what, dove? Solas has always been full of himself. Snowflake, do you really think all of this matters now?”

Desya sniffed and tilted his chin up, tears streaming down his face while his large green eyes stayed trained on his lover. “It matters because we’re wrong. How can I look at my clan now, and tell them all of this?”

Samson sighed and bent down to kiss the elf’s forehead. “Desya, this was centuries ago. What about that bit with Cassandra and the Seekers? Look at how much they got wrong. Or the Chantry, for fuck’s sake? Sweet thing, so much gets lost to history, and this,” he gestured to the marking across his face, “is just something else someone got wrong somewhere down the road. That time, those traditions, they’re long gone. Your people have taken something that was pretty fucking awful, and they made it something that takes my breath away.” 

Desya coughed and let out a choked laugh, sniffing and wiping at his eyes and using Samson’s arms to slowly lift himself up from the floor. The two looked at each other for a few quiet moments, then Desya leaned up to wrap his arms around his neck and pulled him down for a tender kiss. Samson groaned softly and slid an arm around his slim waist, deepening it for good measure. 

When the two finally parted, Samson gently kissed the elf’s eyelids and breathed against him, “Don’t ever say this is ugly. I don’t think I could bear it. Own it, love. These are yours, and I would never see them taken from you.”

Desya sniffed and buried his face against the Commander’s chest, and all he could do was cradle him and hope to the Maker he could be enough to see the poor creature through what felt like another cruel trial. Samson swore to himself he would carry this burden with his lover, and woe to anyone who was fool enough to test him.

**Author's Note:**

> Desya did not handle it very well in the Wilds.


End file.
